The Power of Darkness and Fear
by King Reepicheep
Summary: The sky has darkened. Stalin in the east, Hitler in the west, and no savior in Europe. In Narnia, the population is dwindling mysteriously by the day as a new leader rises to the occasion to preform a coup d'état. But when hope is lost, it has the tendency to come back.
1. Prologue

_**The Power of Darkness and Fear**_

* * *

**Author's Note and Dedication: **

Some of the events of this story are based in truth and some of the events are inspired by true events. That being said, take this story with a (very large) grain of salt, read it as a work of historical fiction. However I would like to point out that characterizations of both canon and original characters are not inherently supposed to represent real people. Inspiration is one thing however, while detailing people's action is something else.

I would like to dedicate this piece to the Righteous Among the Nations recipients of the world, which totals to 25,271 people.

I hope you enjoy this piece.

All the best,

Nothing Really Specific

* * *

_"Because he loves me," says the Lord, "I will rescue him;_

_I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name._

_He will call on me, and I will answer him;_

_I will be with him in trouble,_

_I will deliver him and honor him._

_With long life I will satisfy him_

_and show him my salvation."_

-Psalms 91: 14-16

* * *

**Prologue: Sergei's ****Justification**

**_The People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs (NKVD) Headquarters_**

**_St. Petersburg Division_**

**_December 1st, 1934_**

"Send in Commissioner Medved please." said Sergei Mihaylov.

"Yes sir." said Isidor. "How do you want him presented?"

Sergei stood from his desk chair and waved cigar smoke away from his face. Placing his hands on the visibly warped desk, the Executive of the Secret Police stared directly at his underling's collar so that when he sneered it wasn't too personal.

"As degrading and humiliating as possible." Sergei said, placing a very thick Sobranie cigar in his mouth. He took a drag, letting the fumes get into his system before exhaling like St. George's dragon: smoke, no fire, too yellow to be fierce, but daring enough to cause fear. The perfect display of power in a single puff of cigar smoke.

Isidor nodded and headed towards the door. The silver doorknob squeaked as he turned it, its voice silenced by the door and Isidor's swift stride out.

On Sergei's desk lay a manila folder labeled "Phase I". Opening it, Sergei felt the weight of ten thousand pounds come down on his chest. Even though he had seen the contents of the folder, mostly photographs, he still couldn't control the urge to be human. He resumed his chair and individually examined each photograph, hoping to find some sort of justification for the means.

There was a photograph of a man in a red polo shirt and fall jacket. He had a well defined mustache and beard as well as massive ears. His eyes stared into the camera as if he had nothing left to live for, as if the world was now occupied by an alien race who's only ambition was annihilation. He had no political party affiliation and had no reason to be involved. An innocent fly caught in an unforgiving spider's web. On the back was a date, October 5.

Another was of a grieving mother who had just witnessed the death of her last child. Her face was chiseled into eternal mourning for herself, her country and her husband, who had been detained in Black Dolphin Prison three weeks before this photograph. She wore a white button up shirt and a black overcoat. Her hair was combed and presentable, for she always did this out of habit- for the University of Donetsk required professionalism. She had no political party affiliation and her only sin in the world was being a professor. On the back was a date, August 28.

A man of respectability and service hadn't a speck of fear as he was branded a counter-revolutionist. His posture was honorable, his eyes were clairvoyant, his mind was clear. The only sin he committed was being in service to God. On the back was a date, August 14.

A child of thirteen, a man of seventy-four, a woman of twenty-eight, a priest, a writer, a farmer, a Bolshevik political official, a ditch digger, a fisherman and a poet. All of them immortalized in fear and destruction and all in purview of The Red Banner.

Isidor knocked at the door. "He's here sir."

Sergei closed the folder and placed it to the side of his desk before grabbing a tissue and dabbing his eyes a bit. He didn't cry, but he just wanted to make sure. He discarded the tissue in the garbage can.

"Come in." He said.

Isidor opened the door and stood to the side, allowing Commissioner Feodor Medved to walk into the room. Wearing the uniform of his position and carrying an off white piece of paper in his hand, Medved boasted a tranquil face as Isidor closed the door behind him and blocked it. Sergei stared at him, giving an accurate impression of why he called him in.

"Sit down Commissioner." Sergei said motioning to the vacant chair opposite him with his hand. Feodor took a seat, noticing that Mister Mihaylov was beginning to wave his cigar like a hand-held fan- back and forth back and forth. The smoke swirled like a boa, constricting the air and killing any confidence or self worth that was present.

"I suppose you know why you're here." Sergei said.

"I do," Feodor replied, "I understand my failure and I wish to hand in my resignation."

Medved handed Mihaylov the paper, detailing the reasoning as well as giving a clairvoyant explanation as to why there was no justification for the means. Sergei scanned the letter once, twice and a third time. To his right was a blue Stipula fountain pen. The gold nip had a bit of tarnish but other than that, the pen was a sound instrument of business. Sergei reached for the pen and underneath Medved's name below the words 'Sincerely Yours' he signed his name large enough for Joseph Stalin himself to be able to read it.

Sergei placed the pen to its original position, looked towards Feodor with all the sincerity in the world. "I suggest that you pack your belongings and head to Switzerland, Mister Medved."

"Why Switzerland sir?" Medved asked.

Sergei stood up, folded Medved's resignation letter and handed it to him. "Switzerland is the last place Stalin would look for you." He motioned for a small drawer to his left, opening it and producing a Nagant M1895 revolver and one 7.62x38mmR ammunition cartridge. He loaded the bullet in the chamber and turned the safety off.

"Don't worry Feodor, it's nothing personal." Sergei said. "It's just business."

Medved stood from his chair, placed the letter in his inner coat pocket and straightened his uniform. The belt was resituated to line up with the buttons of the coat as well as the zipper of the pants. He placed his hands by his side lining up with the seam after he straightened his name tag as well his Order of the Red Banner medal that proudly hung on the left pocket.

Isidor smiled, crossed his arms and laughed. He took pride in moments such as this, when the accused are given their sentence and pronounced guilty. His mind began to wander, thinking of the yarn he would spin when telling this story. _The Greatest Era of the Russia began with the trial, conviction and execution of Commissioner Feodor Medved, head of security for that son of a bitch Kirov._

Sergei raised his pistol.

"Any last words?" Isidor asked.

Medved said nothing. He did not even blink as Sergei applied pressure to the trigger. He did not twitch his eye when the gunpowder exploded and Newton's third law of motion took over, sending the bullet through a grooved barrel. There was however, a bead of sweat that trickled down the left side of his face as the bullet exited and headed towards his left side at approximately 1,700 mph and a sigh of relief as Isidor Dalca slowly fell to the floor dead.

"I suggest that if you want to live," Sergei said, "then you get yourself to Switzerland."

Feodor nodded slowly. Looking back at Isidor, he had a mixed emotion of remorse and guilt. He walked over to the poor soul, kneeled down and closed his eyes. He sighed, it was long, deep and mournful.

"How many more must die like this Sergei?" He asked.

"Until Stalin bleeds and dies." Sergei replied as he grabbed his pistol, all of the ammunition for it, his pen and the manila folder of photographs and made his way around to desk quickly. Even though he had nothing to fear he felt as if he had assassinated Czar Nicolas and felt guilty about it.

"Now," he said, "get yourself to Switzerland."

"What about you?" Medved asked as he quickly pushed Isidor's body out of the way.

"I have bigger problems to deal with than the execution block." Sergei replied, "Besides, he was expendable anyway. I could always make something up saying that he was attempting to assassinate me. I'll be fine. You my friend need to get out of the country."

Medved nodded and placed his hand on the doorknob, "Why are you doing this?"

"Sergei," Feodor said, "calm yourself."

Sergei took a breath and motioned for Feodor to open the door. He did so and they walked down the hallway, Mihaylov didn't even bother to shut the door. Instead, he just kept on walking.

"What are you going to do, I mean I know you have nothing to worry about, but won't there be suspicion somewhere?" Feodor asked as they passed a women's restroom.

"I have relatives near Moscow," Sergei said, "they own a small estate. I'll go there for a few months if need be. For now, I'll see about turning this fiasco around. Now, catch a train, go to Switzerland. Contact me when you get there."

Feodor nodded. "Of course but, you still didn't answer my question, why are you doing this for me?"

Sergei sighed and stopped walking. He knew his reasoning but he also knew that he was being a hypocrite in some circles and a crazy fool in others. He turned towards Medved, looked into his eyes and said words that a certain mutual friend said hours before: " Leonid Nikolayev"

Medved's heart skipped a beat. Someone who wasn't even there to witness it knew the last words of his comrade, Sergey Mironovich Kirov. He reached out his right hand, Sergei shook it.

"Be safe Sergei Mihaylov. God knows you need it." Feodor said. They ceased the handshake but they didn't let go as a mutual sign of respect.

"The same comrade, I'll create a diversion long enough for you to get to at least Vienna." Sergei said.

"I'll make arrangements." Medved said. He released the grip and smiled a bit. "Thank you sir, you saved my life."

Sergei nodded quickly and motioned for him to leave. Without a moment's delay Feodor left the building and by seven o'clock that evening was in Eastern Poland.


	2. Chapter I: Sergei's Return

**I: Sergei's Return**

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_Among the worlds, in the glimmering of stars,_

_The single Star is ever my attraction..._

_Not 'cause I'd loved Her so far,_

_But 'cause I live with others with aversion._

_And if my doubts were an awful plight,_

_I just from Her wait for the final answers,_

_Not 'cause She sends to me the saving light,_

_But 'cause with Her I can live and [die] in darkness._

-"Among the Worlds", Innokenty Annensky (1855-1909)

* * *

_Romanov Estate_

_Kolomna, Russia_

_January 15th, 1935_

Mikhail Alkaev opened the door as soon as he heard the breaks of a car. Clad in a formal dress shirt, burgundy waistcoat and a black single breasted jacket with matching trousers, he carried a welcoming but stern disposition as Sergei Mihaylov exited a 1922 Ford Model T. The sun, which was higher than usual, caused Mikhail to squint slightly. A steady wind blew Sergei's black hair and his brown wool coat to the right a bit like a thick borough with winter leaves still attached.

"Good morning sir!" Mikhail said, shouting to outdo the wind.

Sergei smiled and embraced him as he walked through the doorway. "You know you can call me by my first name."

Mikhail shut the door, took Sergei's coat and placed it on the hook on the wall.

"Yes," Mikhail said, "but it's the formalities of business."

Sergei laughed as he walked across the wood floor of the large foyer with a high cathedral ceiling. A glass chandelier from the Czar's Palace hung overhead giving a soft light to the place. To the right up against the far wall was a fireplace. On the mantel was an unfinished portrait of Czar Nicolas painted in during his final hours. His uniform was perfect, his medals displayed with dignity, the right in the coat pocket, the left loyally on a piece of paper, most likely The Address of Bloody Sunday that was never written or given but should have been. It was very fitting that the head was not present.

Two chairs, a rug and a coffee table lay near the fireplace but they offer little importance to the inhabitants the estate- Mister Vladimir and Sonya Mihaylov-Romanov who, like all believers in the Tsar, refused to believe that this Stalinist government, or as it is now referred to as the new regime of the law, existed. In fact, they behaved as if they were stuck in 1905, when Nicholas II of Russia was still salvageable from his ruin- then again; in 1905 he was busy with domestic affairs, namely tennis. In other words, Tsar Nicholas II running an incompetent absolute monarchy.

Vladimir, who was dressed as if he were facing a military inspection, walked down a staircase with his wife and daughter in law in tow. The head of the house smiled as he looked down and saw his eldest son and rushed down like a child at Christmas.

"Sergei!" He said optimistically, "I'm so glad you're home!" The man almost hugged the officer but settled for a hardy handshake. "How are you these days?"

Sergei smiled and placed a hand on his father's shoulder, "Fine отец, just fine."

Vladimir's wife, Vera, wore a purple dress and matching necklace for the occasion. She smiled and hugged the military man with a warm embrace as if she had been yearning to see if for several years now. Sergei smiled back, the embrace of his mother made him feel like a military puppet and more like a human being.

"How are you?" Sergei asked.

"Fine," Vera replied, "better, now that you're around."

The daughter in law and Sergei's sister in law, Abigail, was a radiant woman originally from England. With the grace and beauty of a queen, she smiled and cherished Sergei lovingly and warmly more and more with each second, as if he were a filler for her husband, a reminder of him. In a way, that's how she felt about him, Sergei, for ever since Vasily's disappearance, the world grew dark, malevolent, full of forces to be reckoned with, and people to hate and to fear.

"It's been too long Sergei," Abigail said, still having her arms around him, "how've I've missed you."

"It's great to see you too, Abby," Sergei replied with a smile as he forced her to let go with a respectable retreat. "If you're wondering about Vasily, I haven't received-"

Abigail smiled and placed her finger on Sergei's lips, "Don't speak of it now Sergei," she said, "I'm sure he's fine."

She moved towards the dining room and turned towards Vladimir.

"Are we to eat or are we to starve." She said.

Vladimir nodded and ushered Sergei and his wife into the room.

It was Victorian style. A chandelier over the large table that could seat fourteen, six on one side, six on the other and one at each end. Candles in silver candelabras shone with grace and pride, taking no mind in giving the fine silverware and china a chance to gain some recognition. The ceiling was the color of a French crème pasty and the faces of the seraphs gently serenaded of daring feats of valor with knights and debutantes.

Lunch was already served onto three plates. It was a meal of a roast beef sandwich with pepper jack cheese, olives and mustard with a bowl of homemade potato soup. For drink there was water- alcohol was forbidden in the house.

As the benefactors of the house sat down at the table, Mikhail dutifully stood at the threshold of the kitchen and foyer. Humble footsteps, belonging to Mrs. Sonya Fidget, came down the stairs. At the moment, she wore her mandatory service cap and apron, both of which were crisp white. Carrying a large tray under her left arm she turned rather militantly to the dining room, almost as if she were preparing to enlist in the Red Army.

"Why Mrs. Fidget," Mikhail said smiling sweetly, "how are you this morning?"

"Wonderful sir," Sonya replied with an equal smile. She stopped almost immediately and took a breath from all the rushing. "Master Nikiv isn't feeling well this morning, he has a slight fever, so I'll just be sending up a plate for him."

"Very good," Mikhail replied with a hand motion towards the room, "do send up my regards."

Sonya laughed a bit as she entered the room, grabbing a plate and glass and setting them on the tray.

"He's not dying," she said turning back to Mikhail, "he just has a minor chill that's all."

"Oh, is something the matter with Nikiv?" Vladimir asked.

"Just a slight fever sir," Sonya replied, "should be well by dinnertime."

Vladimir nodded, satisfied with the answer as he reached for his spoon and began partaking the potato soup. It was divine. A gift from heaven in a land plagued by winter and crass politics. The potatoes were tender and moist like a warm summer's afternoon and the smell of it effectuated the nostrils in a way that was almost poetic, something out of Shakespeare or Innokenty Annensky- beautiful, tragic, and elegant.

Vera slowly at her sandwich, keeping watch of Sergei only a concerned mother could. She noticed the way that his shoulders were broader, his hair was given a touch of gray, and his eyes, which were once blue and full of energy, were now grayer as if the life had been vacuumed out, the fire of the revolutionary boy was extinguished and was replaced with nothing.

"So, Sergei," Vera said in attempts to engage in formal conversation, "what is the news from St. Petersburg?"

Sergei sighed and stopped himself from taking another bite of food. He was about to finish his roast beef sandwich.

"Mother," he said, "I wish not to talk of political affairs at the moment."

"Oh but we must talk about political affairs if we are to survive in this new regime, Sergei." His mother replied with a small but noticeable laugh.

Sergei rolled his eyes as footsteps belonging to Mister George Barrett, a British footman and Ivan (otherwise known as Kent), a conditioned mouse who served as Barrett's assistant, entered the room. George, who was carrying Kent via his hand, slowly asked around to see if any refills of drinks were needed. As he made his way to Sergei, the footman sat Kent down on the table. The mouse immediately began to scurry over to the vacant seats and straighten out the silverware with his teeth and nose, pushing and pulling the forks and knives and such in their proper places. The mouse then moved to the candelabras to simply look at see if the wicks were still burning. After satisfying himself with that knowledge he proceeded to move from Mister Vladimir down to Sergei gently waiting until each person petted him or not as a way of showing appreciation to be allowed to work. His payment of course was food. When Kent reached Sergei, the career military man reached out his right hand and stroked Kent's back and smiled.

"You're a good one Kent." Sergei said. "Make sure to help yourself to the cupboard. Don't want you starving now."

George came back around to collect his little helper. "Don't give him any ideas Mister Sergei." George said, "He may not be able to talk, but he understands what you're saying."

Sergei laughed as he let Kent jump from the table back into George's hand and let George and the rodent exit without another word.

"I know there's a reason for you coming here that you're simply not telling us." Abigail, who sat across from Sergei, said.

"Come now," Vladimir, who sat at the head of the table that faced the window, replied, "if he does not wish to speak of it let him keep his business to himself."

Sergei looked in his father's direction, even though he was at the other end of the table, he could see that a large single gray hair was stuck to Vladimir's right lapel and that his hands were relatively frail and shaky, as if he were suffering from a scare or the beginning phases of Parkinson's disease.

"Father," Sergei said, "are you alright?"

"Yes," Vladimir replied, looking back at his son with a smile, "it's just old age that's all."

A voice came from upstairs followed by footsteps. "Is Uncle Sergei here?"

"Yes," Mrs. Fidget, who was with him at the top of the stairs, "but don't hurry yourself, he'll still be there when you get down."

Sergei smiled, stood from his place and walked out of the room and into the foyer. When he saw his nephew dressed in his best clothes and still smiling as if there wasn't a fever to speak of, Sergei smiled and laughed.

"How's my little soldier today?"

"Wonderful!" Nikiv said, "I'm doing a lot better now."

The boy and the maid descended the stairs and when they reached the bottom, Nikiv gave his uncle a bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. Sergei removed his hat and placed it on the boy's head.

"You've been a good boy while I was away?"

Nikiv laughed, "Yes."

"Hmm…are you sure?" Sergei asked playfully.

"Yes!" Nikiv said.

"I don't think you are!" Sergei laughed as he bombarded his nephew with tickling and quality time at the base of the staircase.

* * *

отец: father (ah-TYEHTS)

**Next Chapter: _The Second Winter_**

(For a while, the chapters will alternate between what is happening in Russia/Europe to what is happening in Narnia)


	3. Chapter II: The Second Winter

**II: The Second Winter**

* * *

_The Archer is wake!_

_The Swan is flying!_

_Gold against blue_

_An Arrow is lying._

_There is hunting in heaven—_

_Sleep safe till tomorrow._

-"Peace on Earth" by William Carlos Williams (1883-1963)

* * *

The first winter snow dragged on. Slowly and elegantly, snowflakes fell onto the exterior of the windowpane, on a small ledge of brick and stone. As the world entered hibernation, the wind blew the snow and the cold in every direction making swirls and wisps of free-fallen snowfall.

Dressed in a dress made from fine green and gold silk, Lucy Pevensie was busy brushing her hair with a comb humming the tune to "The Way You Look Tonight" as she looked in a mirror and sat in a chair with red velvet upholstery.

The room was heavenly aristocratic. Across from the vanity that Lucy sat was a large bed and a chest that sat at the foot of it. To the left and right, flanking the bed like two bodyguards were twin nightstands, each with a candle which sat dutifully in a silver candlestick. At the far end of the room was a grand window draped with ivory curtains. The color of the wall was that of a rose- dark but not so much that the room appeared small.

Standing on his hind legs on the chest at the foot of bed patiently waiting for orders was Reepicheep. The loyal, chivalrous, and at times, admittedly overzealous mouse who wielded a rapier (which never left him). At the moment, the mouse was partaking in the role of valet- handing whatever it was necessary for Lucy to present herself well. All that remained of the necessary elements for a lady was a necklace. Three of them, a string of pearls, a string of diamonds, and a string of emeralds, were laid out pristinely neck to the rodent who was thinking to himself why she needed something as so chic as a jeweled necklace.

"Do you think Caspian fancies me, Reepicheep?" Lucy asked, still brushing her hair and smiling at herself.

Reepicheep smiled, either afraid to answer or embarrassed to, "If milady wishes me to be honest," he said, "I should say that he does, but not necessarily in the way that you believe him to."

"Well," Lucy replied, placing the bush down and looking at the mouse solely through the mirror, "we shall see, now won't we?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," Reepicheep said, "we shall see and be in wonder, surprise, or shock. Hopefully there is not a combination of the three."

"Have you selected which would do best?" Lucy asked.

"Something tells me that diamonds will do," Reepicheep answered, "but something also says the emerald. The pearls seem old fashioned and a bit matron to me."

"Matron, is it?" Lucy said, "I was rather keen on the pearls until you called me old."

"Perhaps that was the wrong word to use." The mouse admitted.

Lucy nodded and turned around and gave Reepicheep a face that was not cross but it was not satisfactory either. "It was," she said, "but it is not a sin to have an opinion, especially on something as silly and mundane as a necklace."

Reepicheep turned towards the pearls and sighed a bit before walking over to them and inspecting them a final time. "Well," he said, "they are beautiful. I'm sure they will do the occasion justice."

"If it is not what you think," Lucy said, "then it is not what I will go with."

The mouse smiled at this and relaxed himself by leaning on the bed, letting his tail fall in between the chest and the outer sheet.

"My only requirement as valet is to recommend what suits, my only requirement as equerry is to carry out was is requested. My opinion rarely matters, should never alter yours and should not be considered unless absolutely necessarily."

"But as least you have an opinion." Lucy said, "That's why I wanted you to help me, you can speak your mind, unlike the rest of them, it's always 'Yes, Your Majesty' this and 'Yes, milady' that."

She rolled her eyes, as if the painful memories of words and phrases that occur daily were simply too much for her mind to handle. Reepicheep laughed a bit.

"Yes, I suspect the whole business of formalities can be daunting." Reepicheep said, "However, you could always order for us to call you something else."

"I hate that word, order, it makes me sound like a tyrant." Lucy said.

"Would suggest be a better synonym? Or instruct, direct, give permission, ukase even?" He shook his head, laughing again, "Ukase is such an odd one, and anyway do you get the message? If it's not an order then what exactly would you call it?"

Lucy stopped a moment. To be honest, she never really thought about it. All she knew was that she hated that superficial and commanding word. It was really the only word that could describe precisely what it was that it was intended to.

"I guess we'll stick to orders. For now anyway, until I can find a better word." Lucy said. "Now, if you would be so kind to hand me the diamonds or the emeralds, whichever your preference?"

Reepicheep shook his head, "I'm afraid my preference," he said, "would be to discard this and present you as is. It may come as a surprise to you but you do not need diamonds or emeralds to enhance yourself, when you already have the qualities of those in you already."

Lucy smiled and admittedly blushed. Her cheeks turned slightly red as she stood from her chair and kneeled down to the rodent's level.

"Stop with your gracious words," she said, "or I'll have you imprisoned."

"Under what charges?" Reepicheep asked, smiling as he did so.

"For making me blush." Lucy replied and gently kissed him on his furry cheek. Reepicheep's whisker's twitched slightly, almost as if he had been electrocuted as a sensation of fulfillment and arousal ran up and down his spine. His mind did not go where it normally would, for his conscious knew its place, but to say that his heart wasn't moved would be a lie and an understatement at the same time.

"The court finds me guilty on all charges and sentences me to death." Reepicheep said as he raised his right.

Lucy reached for nothing and stood up again. "Then I shall resurrect you."

Reepicheep laughed as he waved her on with his paws, wanting nothing more than for her to gallivant in the splendor that was to be something of a splendid occasion- a ceremony of whom Caspian should marry. As Lucy walked out of the room, she placed the necklace on her neck and turned back towards the mouse, as if to say 'gratitude is not necessarily good enough'.

"Why go without?" Reepicheep said.

If Lucy were to answer that question truthfully it would be because the mouse had persuaded her to, but instead she produced a lie that was not false, but less true than what her head was thinking.

"The emeralds will irritate me, the diamonds will blind me, and the pearls, let's be honest here for a moment-I'll fiddle with them 'til the world ends." Lucy said.

Lucy turned towards the hallway and walked through the threshold of the door. "Are you coming?"

Reepicheep said nothing as he jumped from the chest to the floor and scurried over to the door. When he was beside Lucy and out of the way, Lucy closed the door and walked down the hallway. Reepicheep followed without protest noticing how the tile floor reflected the walls and ceiling and even himself as he walked. He stopped a moment, stood up on his hind legs again, straightened his fur and continued on all fours.

As they made their way towards the ballroom, Lucy looked into the library, the tea room, the conference room, and the guest bedrooms, noticing that all of the doors were open and that the light produced from there gave the hallway a darker, more medieval castle type of feel, despite the fact that there were candles on the wall every three feet or so. To be fair though, the ceilings were at least fifty feet into the air, and the airy cathedral-like space made one feel small and insignificant.

"I always hate this time of night," Lucy said, "it gives this place a dark feel, if you catch my meaning."

"Yes," Reepicheep replied, "it is a bit grim, but, at least there's no reason other than poor lighting planning for it to be grim, so that's good I suppose."

Lucy nodded, not wanting to argue with that logic and took a left at an intersection. If they were to have continued straight, they would have ran into a door that leads to a courtyard, if they would have strayed right they would have gone into Caspian's room.

The ballroom was resplendent in every sense of the word. White cloths hung from the ceiling and draped across the room, cascading into troughs and weaving through columns and ending beautifully on the floor. Candelabras on the wall and those in stands illuminated the place almost as good as electricity and the denizens present and dressed in their best, were all patiently waiting for Caspian, Peter, and Edmund's arrival, who were all out hunting for the main course- duck. Their goal was to catch fourteen- enough to feed the party and then some.

Evander, a satyr as well as the chief secretary of the treasury, was busy talking to Jason, a centaur and the chief ambassador to the Centauri, the group of people that included the races of the satyrs and the centaurs. The conversation was political and involved taxation.

"All I'm saying is," Evander said, "we must generate some sort of income. If not hunting then the solution is agriculture and then we shall move into trade."

Jason shrugged his shoulders, "Only if this winter lets up then yes, I propose and support that notion. We must progress forward."

"Good," Evander replied, "I'm glad you can see to progress, now, let us be gay in our spirits!"

He and Jason walked towards a table with wine and assortment of cheeses when they turned and saw Lucy enter they first said nothing and then bowed as low as they could to the ground.

"Her Majesty, Lucy Pevensie!" They said, almost in unison, which caused everyone in the room, about seventy people, to do the same. It was a spectacular moment of synchronization that can only be described as being insane and a form of deep respect.

"You can rise now," Lucy said after a few moments. She walked into the room and into her welcome party, leaving Reepicheep to the sidelines to think of philosophy and limerick as he was often known to do whenever finishing something of importance.

"Have they come back yet?" Lucy asked as she walked towards Evander.

"No they haven't milady," Evander answered, "but you shouldn't worry, they must be on their way."

"They have been gone since this afternoon though," Lucy said, "and they said they wouldn't go far."

"Perhaps they underestimated the journey." Jason said, looking towards the large door that was across the room that led outside. The wind picked up into a fury, hollowing with the wolves and beating the world into submission as if it plotted conquest. A pounding on the door. It was thunderous and urgent, but the urgency was outmatched by the storm who screamed over the pleas to open the door to let whomever it was in.

A pause.

_Boom._

Another pause.

_Boom._

A third.

_Boom._

At this point, a Minotaur who was near the door, was starting to get a headache and opened the door so that his pain could be relieved.

Caspian and Peter rushed in. Their faces blue, their clothes covered in snow, and shaking from hypothermia. The Minotaur quickly moved to close the door when he was stopped by a vicious blood stained talon which grabbed the door as if to beg for mercy.

The bull hybrid peered his head around and saw a war beaten owl. Some of its feathers were plucked and the poor creature's face was mauled beyond recognition. The eyeballs were scratched, the beak appeared broken and twisted, a large bleeding scar ran from the middle of his head all the way down to middle of his eyes, as if he were split open and sewed back together again. The Minotaur stepped to one side and the let the owl through, not assisting him, and shut the door.

The bird collapsed to the ground after thirty seconds of flight. It let out a groan and closed its eye for a moment, breathing sweet salvation.

Caspian and Peter limped their way to the middle of the room before they too submitted to the ground and just let themselves be for a moment, thankful to be in a safe place once again.

Lucy and Evander rushed over anxiously and slowly helped Caspian and Peter. Lucy taking Caspian's arm and Evander taking Peter's.

"What happened, where's Edmund?" Lucy asked.

Caspian took a breath before answering, "That's the problem," he said, "we don't know."

Lucy's face went from concerned to grief filled almost instantly, it was as if the pain of losing her brother in another winter was just too much for her to bare. "What do you mean you don't know?"

"He means," Peter said, equally as breathy, "he was taken. We were ambushed, I'll tell you all about it later, right now, I think we both need to lie down."

Lucy turned towards her brother and said nothing as the Minotaur walked forward, carrying the owl gently in his arms.

"Your Majesties," the Minotaur said, "this bird is injured." He turned towards Peter and Caspian, "Did he save you?"

Caspian and Peter nodded, "Kashmir of Milland."

"Who may I ask," Lucy said, "are you?"

"Regis, may lady." The Minotaur replied.

"Take him to my chamber, I shall see to him later." Lucy said. She nodded once, bidding Regis goodbye for now as she ushered Caspian towards his room with Evander and Peter in tow.

Reepicheep, who was watching this unfold before him, slowly made his way back to Lucy's chambers to prepare himself for the position of medical officer. As he walked into the intersection the mouse felt a sudden chill overtake him. Looking to his left, Reepicheep noticed that the door was wide open, letting snow, wind, and the outside temperature inside. He also saw Susan, the eldest sister to Lucy and Edmund, stand on a concrete step in solely her nightgown, not bothering with shoes or a coat. The wind whipped her hair to the right, looking like Botticelli's Venus with each passing moment.

Concerned, Reepicheep scurried over, bracing himself for the chill and stood a respectable distance away.

"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" He asked.

Susan said nothing. She just stood there like a corpse. Unresponsive, emotionless, and comatose.

Reepicheep took another step forward. "Come back inside and we can talk about-"

He was interrupted by the sudden release of an arrow and the even more sudden the target of said arrow. Even though it took less than two seconds, for Reepicheep it lasted for five minutes. The expiring of a life before him had been experienced before, but that was in war. Never has it been done in peacetime. Susan fell backwards and impacted the ground, if the arrow did not kill her then the bashing of the skull against the tile certain did. Her brunette hair surrounded her head as her head slowly became encompassed in small red rivers. The arrow was dead center.

Reepicheep said nothing. He cried instead.

* * *

**That escalated rather quickly, didn't it?**

**If you are so inclined to review to leave thoughts, questions, and concerns it would be most appreciated. I also respond to PM's fairly quickly if you wish to discuss things further.**

**Many thanks to my beta, Knights of Silence, for the help.**


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